


Rise Above It

by silver9mm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Dark, Dark Dean, Dirty Talk, Double Penetration, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Dean, Hurt/Comfort, Knives, M/M, Mutilation, Name-Calling, Protective Sam, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sub Castiel, Suicide Attempt, Threesome - M/M/M, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 01:21:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1921329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver9mm/pseuds/silver9mm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I wonder what that would’ve been like.” Dean stares off, bottle to his lips, an almost satisfied look on his face.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>The half-full bottle tilts again, then Dean uses it to point at him. “Takin’ you apart. Sometimes they didn’t even give me tools. Just my hands. My teeth. My dick.” He wiggles his eyebrows at Cas, then throws his head back. “Ah, <em>fuck</em>!” he nearly screams, then lets out a shaky laugh and waves the bottle around. “Hey, forget it, Cas. More of this and I will, too. For a little while.”</p><p>“It wasn’t your fault, Dean.”</p><p>The bottle hits Cas in the chest, splashes whisky onto his face and neck, and Dean is on him, cat-quick, his whole body nothing but bunched-up muscles and heat. Both hands wrap around Castiel’s neck, thumbs dig in as if he has air to cut off. Cas wills his body to go limp, to not fight his friend, and Dean pins him to the bed, one knee on his stomach.</p><p>“The fuck it isn’t my fault. It was my <em>choice</em>. I <em>wanted</em> to. I fucking <em>enjoyed</em> it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rise Above It

**Author's Note:**

> This is supposed to take place during Season 5, starting with the events of episode 18, Point of No Return. I use too many words. I am the queen of commas and long, weird sentences. I’m sorry.  
> Title from the song Demons by The National.

**_"Your soul has fallen to bits and pieces. Good.  
Rearrange them to suit yourself."_ **

_**-Hermann Hesse, Steppenwolf** _

 

 

“I’ll clear them out, you two grab the boy. This is our only chance.” Castiel starts to undo his tie, and Dean has to shake himself.  

“Whoa, whoa, wait,” he stutters and reaches to stop Cas. “You’re going to take on five angels?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t that suicide?”

“Maybe it is,” he says, too quickly, his lips drawn down in disgust. “But then I won’t have to watch you fail. Sorry, Dean…I don’t have the same faith in you that Sam does.”

Cas pulls a box cutter from his pocket. Dean looks down at it, then back up at Cas from under his lashes.

“What the hell you gonna to do with that?” Sam wrinkles his brow, but Dean has gone very still.

“We can banish them,” Cas supplies. 

Sam pulls a face. “Nice try, Cas, but they’ll see us go in there unless you can mojo something onto the wall from out here.”

Cas says patiently, “I can carry the sigil in with me.”

He holds the blade out to Dean.

“ _No_ ,” Dean hisses.

Sam steps between them, suddenly understanding. “Here, I’ll do it. Dean, keep an eye out. Cas, um.” Sam shuffles from foot to foot and gestures with one long finger. “Open your shirt.” He glances over his shoulder, away from the angel revealing himself, looks at his brother instead. Dean hasn’t turned his body away, but his eyes are off to the side, looking at the building rather than at the lot around them.

 _He’s not seeing anything,_ Sam thinks. _At least not anything here_.

Dean swallows hard and blinks before he meets his brother’s eyes, then he tilts his head down, hides.

“Sam,” Castiel says, “quickly. But, carefully. It has to be exact.”

“Yeah, I know.” He refrains from rolling his eyes at Cas, but just barely. When the thin, sharp steel touches Castiel’s skin, he also manages not to react to Dean’s low groan, pretends he didn’t hear it for Dean’s sake, and for his own sake he tells himself it was only a groan of sympathy.

Cas tries to think, to go over his plan, to keep it from his face so his siblings won’t see it coming, but Dean distracts him. Cas looks at him, stares really, then flicks his eyes away, remembers Dean doesn’t like to be stared at; only he does  _sometimes_ , but that’s in dreams and the difference is minimal to Cas but he wants to respect Dean’s wishes. Dean. His mouth is open slightly, his upper lip curled back from his teeth. His brows are drawn together, and then his nostrils flare as the smell of blood hits him, and he actually takes a step back.

Cas raises his chin and the pull of his flesh makes him aware of what the problem is. Sam is almost done carving the sigil into his chest and is bloody to the elbows. Cas is dripping, his pants soaked through and clinging to his skin. He hadn’t noticed, hadn’t cared, that he was cut and bleeding, but he knows Dean does. Dean cares very much, even though he knows Cas isn’t hurt, not really, not the way a human would be hurt, and besides, Cas has his Grace, and he uses it now.

Sam gasps and jerks back, startled, and frowns at Cas when the excess blood disappears from them both, leaves their skin and clothes pristine. The deep, precise cuts Sam sliced into Cas’ chest remain, though they no longer leak blood. Cas can release the flow when needed, but for now the sigil on his chest has to be hidden, and the blood would have given it away. Cas almost thanks Dean for reminding him, but when he looks at Dean again the words die in his throat.

Dean’s face is pale, white except his cheeks where the blush looks like Cas’ blood has somehow splashed him. His eyes are dark hollows, the green irises glassy. He stares at the sigil as his hands clench and unclench and it is that movement that draws Cas’ attention down, and Dean is hard, the unmistakable outline of his cock filling out his jeans.

Dean grunts suddenly and Sam turns only to see him put a hand up and stumble back a few steps, as far as he can make it before he bends over at the waist and throws up. There is not much to it; whisky and water and some gummi bears Dean found, half a bag that had slid under the Impala’s seat, but Dean heaves again, his body unconvinced.

“Dude.”

“’m fine,” Dean slurs, spits, and slowly raises his head. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and scrubs his face with both hands, and when he opens them Cas is gone.

“Hey,” Sam says softly, “you in this?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. Game time, right?”

They win the game but lose so much. Their half-brother, and Castiel. But they gain faith in each other.

Dean sprawls on the motel bed as soon as the door is closed behind him and pulls the weird-smelling pillow over his face. Sam huffs at him.

“Don’t care, Sammy.”

“Dean, what happened with you and Cas? When he brought you back—”

A muffled something, some curse words and possibly _not talkin’_ is all Sam makes out.

“Alright, fine. Do you think he’s ok? Where did he go? He’ll come back, right?”

Dean flails his hands at Sam.

“Well, do you want something to eat? I’m going—”

“Pie!” Dean hollers into the pillow and wraps his arms around it, rolls over onto his side and curls up.

Dean hears the door click and then Baby roars outside and _goddamn if that ain’t the sweetest sound_. Tentatively, he peeks one eye open and finds the motel room suitably dark and ridiculously decorated.

 _Par for the course_ , he thinks, and wonders what ever happened to that last PGA Tour game he’d snagged. One of the perks of not spending your own money, though, was not mourning things you lost along the way. Dean scrutinizes the carpet before he takes off his boots and socks, and shrugs out of his jacket and flannel and falls back onto the bed. The ceiling is the kind with swirls and textures he’s always loved finding shapes in. He used to want to paint what he sees, but he’s never actually held a paint brush.

_Art school dropout who’s never been to art school. Cas looks like someone who would’ve gone to art school, who would’ve smoked pot and worn aviators to class and been rude to the pretty girls._

“Damnit, Cas,” he murmurs and sits up again. It’s hard to not be angry at someone who’d beaten the crap out of him in the last 24 hours, who’d said he had no faith in Dean. But then he’d sacrificed himself without knowing he’d even survive.

_Maybe he wanted to get away from me._

“I didn’t say I had no faith in you, Dean,” Cas says, next to him, the words quiet but fierce and only slightly distorted by the rush of wings. “I said not as much as Sam. But I said that on purpose. I know you don’t fully trust me, but you trust Sam and he knew what to do. I thought if I could get you to listen to him you would do the right thing. I’m sorry I manipulated you.”

“Cas, fuck man, you—are you ok?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, well, good. You know what happened?”

“Yes, I heard. I am sorry, Dean. About Adam, and what I did and—”

“Hey, you know what? It’s fine. Shit happens. You did good, Cas.”

If Cas can preen, that’s what he does when Dean praises him. He seems to grow a little bigger, expands at his edges, and he smiles awkwardly. Dean gives him a half-smile back. What he really wants is to hug him. Instead, he rummages through bags, and he comes back with a mostly full bottle and stands in front of Cas, sips straight from the neck. Castiel looks up at him, and a frown slowly deepens on his face.

“Dean.”

“Yeah, Cas.”

“I did not mean to upset you. With…the sigil carving. I just thought you’d be better at it.”

Dean closes his eyes and tilts the bottle back, breathes the vapours out through clenched teeth. “Because I carved up people in Hell?” he says without opening his eyes.

“Well, yes. I didn’t want Sam to take too long, to be nervous. I should’ve realised you wouldn’t want to do it.”

“That wasn’t the problem,” Dean mutters, half to himself, and his breath whistles over the bottle opening.

Castiel cocks his head. “You wanted to? Why didn’t you?”

Dean has had a rough couple of days, and what pours out of his mouth is exhaustion and fear and alcohol. “ _Because_ , Cas, a box cutter wasn’t enough. I wanted Sam’s blade. I wanted yours. I wanted to pin you down and take ribbons of flesh off you and make you fucking eat them, but _that_ wouldn’t have been enough, _you_  wouldn’t have been, and I would’ve turned on Sammy,” he says without accusation, without acrimony. It is simply the truth.

“That’s what made me sick, thinking that I could do it to my brother. I did in Hell, you know. Alastair brought me demon after demon, for years probably, all made up like Sammy, and I had to take them apart. If I’d known you then, he’d have brought ones that looked like you, too.”

Castiel blinks at that. 

“I wonder what that would’ve been like.” Dean stares off, bottle to his lips, an almost satisfied look on his face.

“What?”

The half-empty bottle tilts again, then Dean uses it to point at him. “Takin’ you apart. Sometimes they didn’t even give me tools. Just my hands. My teeth. My dick.” He wiggles his eyebrows at Cas, then throws his head back. “Ah, _fuck_!” he nearly screams, then lets out a shaky laugh and waves the bottle around. “Hey, forget it, Cas. More of this and I will, too. For a little while.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Dean.”

The bottle hits Cas in the chest, splashes whisky onto his face and neck, and Dean is on him, cat-quick, his whole body nothing but bunched-up muscles and heat. Both hands wrap around Castiel’s neck, thumbs dig in as if he has air to cut off. Cas wills his body to go limp, to not fight his friend, and Dean pins him to the bed, one knee on his stomach.

“The fuck it isn’t my fault. It was my _choice_. I _wanted_  to. I fucking _enjoyed_  it.”

“Poisoned,” Cas rasps through Dean’s grip.

“What?” Dean asks, though Castiel thinks he is not really interested. Dean moves one of his hands from Cas’ throat to his forehead, tilts his head back and a little to the side, a movement designed to expose Cas’ neck, his tendons, his arteries.

“Hell, Dean. It is poison. The atmosphere itself is addictive and toxic, and that is why you felt pleasure doing what you did.” Cas tries to keep his voice steady, tries to sound calm, hopefully calming. “You were tricked. Made mad with pain and terror, while the air made you into a fiend for it, drugged you. Humans are not meant to judge other humans, it will drive you insane, corrupt you. You were forced into thinking you were giving people what they deserved, but it is all designed to turn you into a monster. There was no way to fight it.”

Cas can’t help starting when Dean’s teeth snap at his face.  _“My father did._ He fought it.”

“Yes, but he didn’t hate himself like you do, Dean. He’s part of the reason you broke. He made you doubt yourself. Your father hated everyone else, not himself. And Sam freed him. If he’d been there longer, he would have succumbed as well. Everyone does, eventually.”

“Yeah, well, I may not be a demon, but I am pretty sure I am insane. I still want to do it, and I’m not huffing Hell fumes.”

“Then do it. To me. Now.”

Cas feels Dean shake himself and his grip relaxes a little. “Cas, no…”

“Yes!” Castiel insists, knows instinctively that if he doesn’t help Dean get this madness out of his system now, it will eat him alive, drive him truly crazy, and make him very, very dangerous. “Do it. I want you to. I saved you, now show me what I saved you from. You want to do it so badly then do it to someone you don’t have to feel guilty about after. I can heal. You can do whatever you want to me. Do it now, and you can do it again, whenever you need it. If you don’t, you’re a liar and a coward, and I think you’re just acting this way to get sympathy—” Cas hates saying those last words, hates every time he has to lie to Dean about how he really feels about him just to antagonise him into action. But he knows Dean well.

With a snarl of pure rage, Dean curls his fingers, digs them into Castiel’s eye socket. Dean might not be able to kill Cas, but he can still feel pain, and squeals when Dean’s nails scratch across his eye and dig into bone. Blood immediately fills the right side of his nose and pours down his throat.

Suddenly, the weight is gone, and Cas rolls over, presses himself onto his hands and knees, opens his mouth to let the blood pour out instead of swallowing it. He turns one way, realises he can’t see out of his right eye any longer and turns the other way. Sees Dean coming back at him, this time with a knife in his hand. He tries not flinch when Dean grabs him, lets himself be shaken about like a ragdoll while Dean tears off his trench coat, but he can’t help the gasp when the knife is jammed against his throat. Dean jerks it and his tie falls away, but the tip of the knife had caught, purposefully or not, under the edge of his jaw, has nicked an artery there.

“You are a righteous man, Dean,” Cas whispers to him. He can barely see him, blind in one eye, the other blurred with tears, the room dark and Dean somehow seems to have gathered shadows to him. His eyes are lost in them, black pools, and his form wavers strangely in the gloom.

“Why does your blood even flow?” Dean asks, ignoring Cas’ words. He reaches out and pulls Cas closer, raises his left arm by the wrist. “Why does your heart still pump? Is Jimmy completely gone? Could you bring him out for me while I do this, huh? I’d like to hear a human scream.”

“No. I wouldn’t do that.”

The request is almost sweet: “Then _you’ll_  have to scream for me, ok?”

The blade digs into Cas’ shoulder, slices along the rotator cuff, severs muscle and tendon, and when Dean casually drops his arm Cas does indeed cry out, half in pain, half in the effort it takes not to heal, to just let himself be crippled. Dean repeats the cut on the other side and now Cas cannot raise his arms, cannot defend himself. Dean flips the knife around and uses both hands to rip open the dress shirt. Curiously, it is a caress Cas feels next. Dean’s hands slide slowly over his chest, and thumbs and knife hilt catch on his nipples.

“What _are_ you?” Dean breathes. His hands come back up Castiel’s body and the knife slices a deep furrow into his skin from his navel to his throat. “I’ve had men, women, ones in between, but you… I think I remember what you looked like the first time I saw you.”

Dean’s face is so close to Cas’ he couldn’t see him if he wanted to, even if Dean wasn’t on his ruined right side.

“As Hell fell away, I looked up and saw you. You were everywhere, you were the sky, and you felt _so good_. You were freeing me. I loved you because of that. And now you’ve brought it all back,” he says and shoves the blade into Castiel’s body, under his ribs, and with a slow, steady, agonising pull, carves the angel open from sternum to spine.

“You are beautiful, too,” Cas groans. His hands twitch at his sides. “It was an honour to save you. To give you life again. I swear on everything I am, you are worthy.”

Dean twists the knife around casually, and Cas feels a lung sliced into. He heals it only so he can continue to talk. “How do you feel now? Is this as intoxicating as it was in Hell?”

The knife is jerked out and Dean moves away. Cas wavers on his feet, not realising he’s been leaning on Dean.

Dean frowns. “Honestly, no.” Then he bares his teeth. “Maybe I’m just out of practice.”

Castiel screams then, and keeps screaming, though he cloaks the room so no one disturbs them, but he gives Dean what he wants, gives him everything he has. He tells Dean what will hurt him the most and where, lets Dean pin him across the table and gouge holes in his back where his wings would be had they form. He holds still when Dean jams the motel pen into his ear, allows his body to spasm erratically when it penetrates his brain, momentarily ruins his motor skills. He screams piercingly while Dean breaks his fingers and cuts through the tendons in his hands.

But he talks when he isn’t screaming, when Dean takes a moment to wipe his palms, too bloody to hold the knife, or when he searches around to find the nearly empty bottle.

“Dean, I know you don’t want to do this. I know it doesn’t feel the way you think it should, and that is because you’re not ruined. What you did is not who you are,” Castiel pants, on his knees, puddled on the floor, and he shivers, feels the air touch his exposed spine. He thinks he could just shrug out of his skin like taking off a shirt after what Dean’s done to him. He gags on blood, coughs, tries to raise his head and cannot. Dean must’ve severed something important back there.

“Is that so?” Dean’s voice comes from somewhere nearby. Cas blinks blood from his one good eye and can see Dean’s feet. He must be in a chair. “Look at me, Cas.”

“I want to. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

Cas’ Grace slides through him, just to those places that are essential for this movement. He straightens as much as he is able.

“Good.” Dean spreads his encrusted hands with a flourish. “This is who I am. This is what I’ve done. Now, tell me you’re still glad I’m here.”

“I am. I swear it. Dean, why do you think you want this?”

“Because, you fucking child, I’m a monster, that’s why!”

“But you kill monsters.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “Oh, is that it? Is that what you think I should do? Kill myself? Fuck it. Fucking fine. _Fine!_ ” Dean slams the knife into his own thigh. In a spray of blood, he does it again and again, to both legs before he attacks his left arm, and Cas sits, astonished, just long enough for Dean to eviscerate himself.

Cas’ Grace is only a half-thought, therefore only half useful, but it does enough so he can scramble to Dean, catch his wrist as he swings the blade towards his own heart.

“No!” Castiel shouts at him, then gathers the dying man into his arms and flings the knife away. “I forgive you. You are not bad, I promise. You are not a monster. You hated this, didn’t you? Tell me. I know you did.”

Dean whimpers, and Cas lets him cry, holds him against his shoulder and weaves his Grace through Dean’s body. Doesn’t heal him, but keeps him alive, knows Dean needs to feel the pain.

“H-how can you forgive me?”

“Because I know you. I remade you, Dean, I raised you up and pulled the pieces of your soul back together, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. What’s happening here is your mind, your memories, your choice. _You had no choice in Hell_ , I keep trying to tell you that. It’s full of trickery and broken rules and games, and no one has ever beat it. Your father may have lasted a long time, but he wouldn’t have forever, and you and Sam saved him. You _can_ choose now. You don’t have to be that thing anymore.”

“If Sam knew…”

“He does. At least, he has an idea. He loves you, no matter what, and isn’t that what really matters? Isn’t that how to truly know if you’re good, is if Sam still stands by you?”

“If he saw this—ah!” Dean twists in agony, and Cas feels a fresh spurt of blood against his skin.

“Shh.” Cas presses his lips into Dean’s hair. “He wants you whole as much as I do, and maybe I didn’t do such a good job the first time. Maybe there are some pieces loose. We can fix them.”

Dean shakes his head. “Can’t,” he says with no breath. “Sam won’t.”

Cas settles Dean back in the chair and binds his Grace tight around him, holds him together, and then he finds Sam.

“Jesus fucking christ!” Sam yelps.

“Don’t say that, Sam.” After the bitter scent of the motel, Sam smells like a waft from Heaven to Cas.

Sam’s jaw drops, then he drops the basket of food on the floor of the grocery store. “Your fucking _eye_ , Cas. Your…everything! What the fuck? Where’s Dean?”

“He’s alive, I promise, but he's hurt himself. You have to come with me now.”

Cas touches Sam’s chest and Sam blinks in one place and opens his eyes in another.

Blood is everywhere: splashed on the walls, pooled on the table. One of the ashtrays is filled with it. There is a large smear across the floor and Sam follows it with his eyes, dreads what he’ll find and the journey there seems to take an eternity.

Dean is sprawled in the motel chair and if Sam hadn’t been told he was alive there’s no way he would have known it. It looks as though he’s been through a grinder. Muscle and bone show through the shredded jeans at his thighs, his left hand hangs at a strange angle, the tendons cut clean through, and he is open across the belly; Sam can see pink bubbles of intestines bulge through the bloody mess.

Sam feels bile rise in his throat and can’t help the noise that slips through his clenched teeth, and it is only then Dean shows any sign of life. His half-closed eyes find Sam and he draws a breath. Blood gurgles in his throat and when he breathes out, a fountain of it pours from his lips.

Sam is next to Dean in a heartbeat, on his knees beside him. He tries not to feel his jeans soaking up blood from the saturated carpet. This close, he can see Dean’s blood as it pumps from the severed arteries at his wrist, but it is slow, sluggish, and he knows Cas is holding back the flow, keeping Dean alive.

“Dammit, Dean,” Sam whispers, splays his hand across his brother’s chest, needs to touch him. “What’s so bad? Why would you do this?”

Dean’s mouth opens and closes a few times. Sam thinks he is trying to speak but cannot, then realises Dean is pushing blood out of his throat. Clots dribble from his lips as he works them clear with his tongue but when he takes another breath, he coughs, and Sam is just able to turn his face away and the gore sprays his hair instead. He tucks the mess behind his ear, streaks of his brother’s blood on his cheek. The room reeks of iron and fear.

Sam refuses to acknowledge that he is salivating.

“Almost…demon…” Dean finally slurs, and Sam bites his lip, thinks Dean has read his mind, is accusing him, but no, he means himself.

“Dean, I know, man. I _know_. I know what happened to you, how far you went and what that means, ok? But you aren’t a demon. Not any more than I am. You’re a survivor. You did what you had to do, and you got out. That bad thing didn’t happen.” 

Dean’s lashes, the only things not painted red, lift, and Dean’s eyes gleam with tears, but his mouth twists, his upper lip rises over his teeth in a feral sneer. Sam pushes his hand hard against Dean’s chest in response, like Dean used to do to him when they were kids and Sam would have nightmares. Dean would press his hand over Sam’s heart, tell his baby brother everything was ok.

“I love you, Dean,” Sam says, and is rewarded with a hard thump in Dean’s chest. “I do. No matter what has or will happen. And I forgive you everything, always. Whatever you did, didn’t, wanted to, will do, I forgive you all of it. I know you’re good, Dean, I don’t need the angels to tell me how important you are. I’ve always known. I need you. Don’t ever do this to yourself again, please?”

“’m monster…” Dean gurgles.

“If you are, I am too. You did what you did in _Hell_ , Dean. I’ve killed innocent people and drank their blood, right here in the sun. I still could end up being the biggest monster of all.”

Dean draws another wet breath, and Sam sees pink foam from his brother’s lungs work it’s way into his mouth. Sam looks over his shoulder. Cas is still by the door. His blood runs down his body in lazy streams, fat drops pat the floor from his fingertips, and Sam can’t ignore the incredible heat that sears through his body, lips through to his groin, at the thought of what angel blood might taste like.

“Cas,” he says, his voice thick in his throat, “heal him. Please. He can’t last much longer.”

Dean growls, protests, and Sam has had enough. He jerks his hand away from Dean’s chest, shakes off the bloody shirt that sticks to him, and grabs his brother’s face with both hands. Dean’s eyes go wide as Sam grips him, and blood runs from one nostril now, a weak drizzle.

“Fuck, Dean, do you want to die that bad? You want to leave me here all alone? What happened when you died before, huh?” he shouts, inches from his brother’s face. “Don’t you fucking dare leave me now! You’ve always been here for me, and I need you now more than ever! Lucifer is coming for me, Dean, and I need my big brother! I don’t care if you’re fucked up, if you want to hurt, kill, torture people, because I know you _won’t_. You won’t fucking do it, it only bothers you that you think about it, so fucking deal with it!”

Dean can’t breath anymore, but his eyes are still on Sam’s face.

Sam’s voice softens. “ _We’ll_  deal with it, Dean, ok? Together.”

Dean blinks once, slowly, and again, and Sam knows he’s reached him, finally. Dean’s eyes twitch then and roll up, and Sam twists around, looks for Cas, but he is there next to them, one bloody, slender finger already reaching out to touch Dean’s forehead. Sam feels the Grace like a tiny gust of wind flow past the backs of his hands, and Dean gasps, a long, deep inhale that Sam nearly weeps to hear. He is clean, healed; bones and flesh and sinew mended and knitted and he raises his hands to wipe at his face instinctively. Sam stands, wants to see him clearly, to make sure, and when he is certain Dean is whole, he turns to thank Cas. Falters.

Cas is still a mess. What’s left of his shirt is plastered to him, obscenely outlines every muscle and rib. His belt is loose, his pants open and they hang on his hips, glued in place by blood. It is smeared across his face and around his neck, and Sam can tell it is Dean’s handprints there. Had he tried to stem the blood that Sam can see slowly pulse from a small cut near his carotid artery? Sam eyes Cas’ lithe, slick frame, sees more and more of Dean’s handiwork.

Sam cuts back to his brother, finds Dean staring up at him. He is shaking and as white as if still drained of blood, eyes fever-bright. “I did that to him, Sammy. Look. Just ’cause I wanted to. Because I need it. Because it makes me hot. I got a taste for fucking my torture victims.”

“I know, Dean—”

“No!” Dean shouts, but still doesn’t move, and Sam thinks that maybe he can’t, that his legs will give out, that the trembling is bone-deep and will bring him down if he tries to stand. “No, you don’t, Sam, not everything. I maimed and tortured and raped and did it every day, all day long, for years, but this—” His hands clench into fists and his burning gaze goes to Castiel. “ _Him_. He isn’t like any of those damned souls. He is so strong. He fucking let me do it, he _wanted_  me to do it, and the more I did it the more he offered to me and I had to stop myself before he let me take him apart.”

“But you _did_  stop,” Castiel finally speaks. “You can’t kill me, Dean.”

Dean cocks an eyebrow at him.

“Or, if you could, you wouldn’t. I know you. You would not kill me. I’m the only one who can give you what you want. Who can give you this. Like Ruby was the only one who could give Sam the same thing.”

Sam flinches at Ruby’s name, and twitches again when Dean looks at him, sees the anger and betrayal still caused by mentioning her. He tries to speak, swallows hard, tries again.

“See, I do know how you feel. It’s what we were raised on. Not love, compassion, anything like that. Fear, violence, pain. He’s right. But that doesn’t make us bad, Dean. We are what we are. Hunters. That violence turns you on isn’t strange. And you have an outlet for it right here, a willing victim.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean spits.

“That, too, I imagine. Right, Cas?”

“I don’t know everything that entails, but yes.”

Sam thinks about it not at all before he acts, and later he is amazed at himself; Dean might have come out of that chair and killed him on the spot. Castiel could have killed him, too, or at least rejected him painfully. All Sam knows is he has to prove to Dean he isn’t alone, he isn’t evil or wrong, or anything like that. They _save_ people. At least, more people than they hurt. And Dean can’t keep everything inside, or eventually he’ll be the one in need of saving.

Maybe that’s what this is: maybe he and Castiel can save Dean.

His hand snakes out and catches Castiel by the hair and jerks him close. His other hand wraps nearly all the way around Cas’ throat and squeezes. Hard. His fingertips slip into the little slit at Cas’ jawline, and he feels fresh blood flow over his knuckles, tries to ignores it. Cas’ legs jerk as his feet leave the ground, and his hands come up, but only to grip Sam’s wrist, to try to take some of the pressure off his neck, and then they spasm again as Sam kisses him. Sam digs his fingers into Cas, forces his mouth open, and his tongue inside.

Sam has never kissed another man and he’s always assumed it would be different from kissing a girl, but it isn’t. Except for being aware of the tiniest scratch of Cas’ stubble against his skin, his body responds like it always does: heat floods through him, and need, desire. Lust. He wants this person in his grip to know they belong to him, at least until this is done. He wants to own them, control them, make them fucking weak and desperate because of what he is doing.

His wide tongue nearly fills Cas’ mouth and he searches inside of him, feels the evenness of his teeth, tastes the strangely freshwater flavour of his saliva, and he bites at Cas’ lips, nips and sucks at them until Castiel whines. In pain or pleasure or fear, Sam can’t tell, but he lowers him, moves his mouth towards the tear in Castiel’s neck his fingers reopened. He is nearly there, his tongue out and dragging along Cas’ skin, the smell and faint taste sickeningly sweet and heady, and Cas whimpers, says “No, Sam, don’t,” even as he rolls his hips against Sam’s thigh, and Sam senses Dean next to him. He lifts his head, licks Cas’ blood from his lips, and meets his brother’s glare.

“He said no, Sam. He didn’t even say no to me when I had his heart in my hand.”

Sam twists Cas’ face around to his. The angel’s eyes are glazed, his eyelids flutter but never quite close.

“Cas?” he prompts.

He hasn’t stopped his grind against Sam’s leg, has even moved closer, slid farther up his thigh, almost riding him. His tongue flicks out, wets his lips, and curls at the tip, and Sam knows he wants to be kissed again, but Sam waits.

“Dean’s…” Castiel manages. “What he wants.”

Sam grins. His eyes still on Cas, he says, “Give him permission, Dean. Give him to me. If you don’t want him, if you can’t give him this after everything he’s done for you, let me do it. Let me have what I want. Let me have his blood and his body.” Sam laughs, a harsh sound, and says, “I’m not ashamed. _You_ look at him now, what you’ve done, and he still wants to please you. Fuck it, Dean, you could do your worst and we’ll both still love you, won’t we, Cas?”

He shakes the overwrought angel by the hair and Cas gasps out a yes, says yes over and over and his yes mingles with Dean’s and before it is even finished Sam has his mouth sealed over Castiel’s neck and sucks hard, uses his tongue to force the skin apart more, his teeth to bite new tears into the flesh.

Angel blood is nothing like demon. It is liquid fire, and the only thing to quench the torrent that sears his throat is to drink more and more. Vaguely, Sam is aware of movement, of rips and thumps, of Cas jerking in his grasp, but it is no matter to him. He lifts Cas again, wrenches Castiel’s head to the side by his hair, and power—only a trickle of Grace, really—seeps out through Sam’s extremities.

It is effortless to hold Cas, easy to manipulate his body when the wound at his neck doesn’t give Sam enough, and he lifts Cas higher to get at the gaping hole Dean has carved into his chest over his heart. Castiel cries out as Sam buries his face in the gash, as his tongue slips over Cas’ rib bones. The blood from the wounds on his back where Dean pretended to dig out his wings drenches them, and now that Dean has stripped Cas naked, he leaves a bloody smear around Sam’s waist as he winds his legs around him.

Cas wonders if he should keep supplying Sam, should keep healing himself internally; he is a little afraid what this might do to Sam. He has seen the man drink gallons of demon blood before—

“Whore,” Castiel hears in his ear. Dean’s voice is low, dangerous. Cas opens his eyes, not knowing when he’d shut them. At this angle, Sam holding him twisted in his arms, bent sideways, he can see only two things: his own cock, and Dean’s. He’s naked now as well, and Cas struggles wildly in Sam’s grip, wants to see all of Dean, frantic almost, and Sam finally raises his head. His mouth drips blood, and he sniffs to clear his nostrils of it, and then barks a laugh when he sees his brother, sees why Castiel is resisting him. Cas’ cock bounces against Sam’s belly as he moves, and Sam lets go of his hair only to catch it in a tight grip. Castiel sobs at the sensation, and still he reaches for Dean.

“Look at you, just coming apart,” Dean says and moves just out of Cas’ reach. “Literally. You know, Cas, I think this is all your fault, that you knew I’d be this fucked up after being dragged out of Hell and you probably volunteered, didn’t you, fucking slut, to be the one bound to me. You knew I’d want to hurt you, use you, fuck you. You don’t give a shit about me, do you? You just want to be _wanted_.”

“No, Dean, I swear—”

“ _Shut up_. I know what you are, now. _Whore_. Angel-slut. Something even worse than what we are, because you were made this way, programmed. God must’ve been drunk that day. Is that it? Did your Father touch you, Castiel, did he fuck you up worse than our father fucked us up? Did he make you into this little cocksucking angel?”

Dean’s jaw clenches, the tendons in his neck jump, and his fists ball up. Sam squeezes Cas’ cock once more and then drops him, moves between his brother and the angel. Cas sways on his feet, Sam’s hand back in his hair the only thing that keeps him upright.

“Sammy…” Dean warns as his brother advances on him, drags Castiel behind.

“What, Dean? _What_? You know how it is with me, and you let me do it.”

“The blood—”

“Yeah, Cas’ blood. It’s fucking amazing.”

“Wait—” Dean backs up hurriedly, but the motel is small and there is nowhere to go. Dean’s legs hit the bed and he falls more than sits. His eyes dart around, search for a weapon, a way around his brother, but Sam only laughs again and slings Castiel at him, down to his knees.

“You called it,” Sam says, and kicks at Dean’s legs to spread them. “Open your mouth, Cas.”

Obediently, Cas’ lips part and Sam pushes him between Dean’s knees, but he lets go when Cas surges forward. The noise Dean makes when his cock slips into the heat of Castiel’s mouth is something like pain. Or perhaps sorrow. But the words he speaks betray neither feeling.

“Oh, you fucking like that, my angel-whore? You don’t even have to breathe. I could keep my cock inside you for hours. I could cut your fucking throat and fuck it that way, so I could see the head of my dick in your open mouth, see those pretty blue eyes staring up at me. Break your jaw so you could get your mouth around my balls, too, be buried inside you to the hilt. Ah, _fuck_.”

Dean’s head falls back, and he pushes Cas’ face against his belly. Cas doesn’t struggle, he simply lets Dean have his way. When Dean reaches over Cas and slides his hands down his back, rakes his fingers over wounds there, digs into the half-congealed blood, Castiel’s body bows, and Sam thinks for a second he sees a shimmer in the air around Cas, but it is gone too quickly for him to be sure.

Dean has slipped back into butcher mode as Cas begins to bleed again and Sam sees him glance around, look for something. Probably the knife.

“Cas, why haven’t you healed yourself?” Sam asks quietly.

“Dean doesn’t want me to,” Cas mumbles, lips against Dean’s shaft.

Dean laughs, twists at Cas’ flesh again, and again there is a glimmer in the dark room.

“Stop it, Dean.”

“Fuck, why? Why not just be what we are? Why fight it anymore? We’re doomed anyway, might as well be damned, too.”

“Just give up?”

Dean doesn’t answer, only makes a noise of lust and thrusts into Castiel’s mouth, his eyes closed. They open to slits when Sam grabs his wrist and tugs it away from Cas, but he doesn’t protest.

“You want him back now, Sammy?”

Sam ignores him and jerks Cas to his feet and then up into his arms again, and smiles as Cas nuzzles against his face, his lips wet and searching. He takes a step forward, hears Dean grunt in surprise as he pushes Castiel’s back into him.

“Ask him to fuck you,” Sam says against Cas’ lips.

“Please, please, Dean. I don’t care if you want to hurt me. Just fuck me. I want you to feel good.”

Dean’s eyes are wide. “Sammy…” he says again.

“Do it, dammit,” Sam growls and pushes Cas, pushes them both onto the bed.

Dean hesitates, but Cas arches in his arms.

“Just use blood,” Sam suggests, knows from experience it will work. Dean has to know, too.

Cas undulates on Dean, paints him red again, and their bodies make wet sucking noises when they pull apart. Dean wraps an arm around Cas to pin him, the other reaches down between them. He bends his knees, spreads Cas’ legs, and Sam can see clearly as his brother positions his cock and then thrusts up. Sam winces in sympathy with Cas as Dean takes him in one hard shove, but he can’t help palming himself through his jeans.

Cas’ face is twisted in pain, his eyes shut tight, but when Dean moves out and back into him the first time, they snap open, one blood filled, the other sky blue and blazing. Dean mutters foul oaths and promises that blend together, make less and less sense, but as Sam guessed, he ceases hurting Cas. He’s wound around Cas; under his arms, his palms pressed against his chest, and Cas cuts off the last of Dean’s mumbles, twists and kisses him. Just the side of Dean’s mouth, but Dean’s hips stutter at the contact, and Cas is the one rambling now, a low, gravelly intonation that sounds like a prayer to Sam.

“I love you, Dean, I love you! I _am_ made different, special. I was made for you, I have been waiting eons for you. The moment you were born, I knew. I have loved you your whole life, and I will love you forever. We are a part of each other, as much as you and Sam are, and we will be saved, all of us. God has not damned you, has not abandoned us, just don’t give up. Don’t give up, fight your darkness, Dean, love me, let us heal you—”

Sam wonders absently if anything could be as fucked up as what is happening right now even as he strips out of his clothes and moves towards his brother and the half-destroyed angel. Dean looks down at Sam when his weight tilts the bed. His older brother’s expression is unreadable, but at least it’s not murderous anymore. Sam hopes it stays that way as he reaches for Cas.

Cas mewls a little protest as Sam scoops him up, but Dean lets him go and Sam pulls him into another kiss, and barely resists the urge to return to the fount at Cas’ throat. Instead, he brushes down Cas’ body, over the wounds at breast and belly, slides fingertips along the steely underside of his cock, which jumps at the touch; presses his palm over the heavy sac, and then Sam shifts his hand around.

He spreads his fingers over his brother’s thickness, his thumb caresses where Cas is split open by it and Dean gasps, grinds into the touch, into Castiel. It is wet there, sticky and scorching from Cas’ blood, from their mingled sweat, and Sam coats his fingers before he curls them, and somehow finds entrance. Cas hangs from Sam’s neck, legs spread wide, and if it was hot outside his body, Sam is burned inside it. Two fingers, then three, and Dean makes a noise, but Cas is limp except for his arms locked around Sam. He moves as much as he can, swipes, tickles, presses his brother’s cock, his long fingers nudge the head when he finds it, and Dean curses, barely a breath, a warning maybe, but Sam knows his brother, has heard him so many times, fucking girls for hours, has heard this same hiss, heard a break in the rattle of bed frames, and then it would start up again.

He grins and lifts Cas up, his fingers inside him, gives Dean the moment he needs. Castiel lets Sam move him around without protest and arches his back, offers his ass to Sam when he’s on his hands and knees next to Dean. Sam’s fingers worm back inside him, deeper this time, until he’s buried to his knuckles. He twists, pulls back, adds a fourth finger and Cas finally squeaks when those knuckles press hard, when his body relents and opens to them, lets Sam’s large hand halfway inside of him. He knows he could work his whole hand in, and suddenly wants there to be a ‘next time’.

“Christ, Sammy, so hot…” he hears, and Dean’s hand snakes under Cas’ body. Sam times his touch to curling a finger inside Cas, rolls it over his prostate, and Cas cries out, and soon the brothers make a game of it until he bucks between them, pants and whines, his cock red as it leaks over Dean’s fingers. Castiel jerks to his knees, almost hits Sam in the face with the the back of his head, but Sam laughs and dodges him and kisses his neck, and, by accident, the blood still trickling there. The new taste is potent, electrifying.

“Sam, wait, you shouldn’t—”

Dean is right, Sam knows, but it takes everything he has to pull away.

“Let him heal, then,” Sam snarls. “And don’t hurt him again. We can do this, but no more pain, for you or him.”

Dean hesitates.

“Or we’re trapped here, Dean, and we _will_  become monsters, and we’ll take Cas down with us, because he won’t leave us now. You won’t, will you?” Sam asks, bloody mouth in Castiel’s ear. Cas shakes his head. The side of his face is wet, and Sam presses his lips into the tears that course there and Cas shudders, his body pulsing around Sam’s hand.

“Do you like this, Cas?”

“ _Yes_.”

The look on the angel’s face is rapturous, and even his ruined eye does not mar the beauty there. Sam cups his hand over it and Dean finally nods, and when he moves it away Castiel’s sky-lit eyes match again. His neck no longer bleeds, the gash over his heart is gone, and Sam can feel soft skin against his chest instead of bone. The blood is gone from all three as well, and Sam’s stomach knots at that and he wonders what the detox from angel blood will be like, if they’ll have to lock him up again, if he’ll have to go through the agony alone this time or if maybe they’ll join him, keep him occupied—

Cas’ hips roll and bring Sam back. He picks Cas up and deposits him over his brother and the two kiss. Dean whispers against his lips when he can and though Sam cannot make out the words, he knows they are sweet this time. He finds his brother’s cock, only a little surprised when Dean doesn’t react as he runs his fingers from the base to the tip, gathers the slick there, then does the same to his own and spits in his hand, mixes the precome into a gel and glosses his cock with it. Legs wide, he straddles the couple and slouches over them, lines up Dean’s cock against his own and wets them both. Cas goes pliant again, lets himself be shifted as needed. Sam has opened him up wide enough, long enough, it is easy to get inside him, even though his cock is bigger than Dean’s—a perfect replica, but suiting his larger body. He feels Dean’s hands on his own and for a moment their fingers twine and Dean clutches at him and Sam has his brother back, and there are only a few ways in life they could be closer than at this moment. Dean could damn himself, and he might even have been able to destroy Castiel, but he would never hurt Sam, never deny him anything, even if it meant fighting a seemingly impossible battle.

Sam steadies himself, closes his eyes. Dean get a firm grip on Cas’ hips, drags Cas down as far as he can over their cocks, and then Sam fucks them both, the slide against his brother inside Cas ecstasy, the tight ring and burn on his cock from Cas’ body mind-blowing.

For long minutes there is only harsh breathing and muffled cries, sobbed words, but when Sam opens his eyes and leans back, something astonishing happens. The glimmer he noticed before coalesces in front of him, becomes an oil-on-water rainbow, melds, melts, reforms, and he can see Castiel’s wings. They are huge, black; a shell-like iridescence tips every feather, and they twitch and flutter on either side of the bed where they are draped and Sam is sure if they were drawn up they could easily canopy the bed. He goes still, notes vaguely that Dean takes up his lost rhythm. Tentatively, he reaches out and brushes a fingertip along one wrist-thick, down-covered bone where it connects to Cas’ body, where just a little while ago holes had been. Castiel hisses and his wings flare out at the sensation and Dean yelps as if shocked.

“What the fuck was that?”

“His…Cas’ wings,” Sam breathes. “I can see them. I can _feel_  them…” And he does, wraps his hands around the bones and holds on when Cas writhes.

“Sam! Stop! Cas, does it hurt? Hey!”

Castiel moans and trembles, but he shakes his head. “N-no, no, not hurt, oh god, never…been _touched_.”

“Should I stop?” Sam asks, rolls his wrists carefully, barely grips so he won’t damage the soft feathers.

“No, please don’t, I can’t—I’ve never, oh god fuck—”

Dean yanks Cas down into a kiss, swallows his blasphemes, licks them up as they fall from his lips, and Sam spreads his arms, reaches out as far as he can along the wings, the shimmering, unbelievable things, and begins to scratch lightly under the feathers, ruffles and massages muscles and tendons that have never had such attention, and Cas seems to break between them. Goes boneless one moment, then snaps like a tree in the wind the next, and when Sam finds small, rough patches of skin near the base of each wing and presses them with his thumbs, Castiel keens and babbles in Enochian and Sam’s hands come away wet and glistening gold. He brings them to his lips and the oil smells faintly like flowers, feels like honey, and numbs the tip of his tongue when he tastes it. He does it again, gets his fingers dripping with the oil, and feeds it to Dean. His brother’s soft lips wrap around him, his tongue darts and laps, and when Dean moans, Castiel comes at the sound. Sam digs into his wings then and the angel cries out, struggles, pushes and pulls at them both, overstimulated, and Sam only relents when he begins to beg, his words broken English and mixed angelic.

Sam gathers Cas against his chest, murmurs soothing sounds into his ear, and when he leans back against Sam, Dean comes forward with him, and Sam holds them both, one hand on the back of Dean’s head as he buries his face in Castiel’s shoulder, and the brothers move gently, and it is like this that they come, within seconds of each other. Feel the hot little torrents mix and coat them, making for an instance of perfect slipperiness they should have had the whole time, and Dean begins to laugh. It is small, a giggling fit barely audible between gulps of breath, and Sam thinks it is terribly sad that Dean can’t see, can’t feel it, when Castiel wraps his wings around him. Sam caresses the beautiful things, knows that he’ll lose the ability as the potency inside him wanes, and it is even more sad that no one will be able to touch them, to pleasure Castiel like that again. Cas groans at his touch, drops his head back onto Sam’s shoulder and it is a perfect moment, Sam thinks, one he hopes he can remember the moment before he dies, whenever that is: his brother giggling, Castiel relaxed and feeling pleasure like he’s never had before, his wings around the man he loves, and Sam holds them both, knowing they needed him to get this far, to get to this place and time.

They pull apart eventually, and Sam is right. At the loss of intimate contact, Cas’ wings fade from reality, but Sam doesn’t have to worry about laying on them when they arrange themselves into as normal a position as they can on the small bed.

Dean gets to his feet, a little shakily, Sam notes, and shuffles to the bathroom. He closes the door before he turns the light on, and Cas snuggles against Sam in the darkness. His smaller body fits against Sam like it was made to; his head under Sam’s chin, his fists curled up between their chests, his knees drawn up so his shins are on Sam’s thighs, and Sam remembers sleeping just like this with Dean when they were kids, when he was eleven or so and still so small and Dean was all long legs, long lashes, a hard sleeper who didn’t mind when Sam had nightmares and needed comfort, who never protested when there were only two beds to a room and their Dad was snoring in one and they shared the other. Sam’s the older brother right now. He’s the one Cas turns to for guidance, this ancient, innocent being and Sam’s the one Cas depends on. Dean is the one Castiel desires, needs, wants, but Sam is who he looks up to.

“Cas?”

“Hmm, yes, Sam?”

“Thank you for loving Dean. Thank you for saving him.”

“You did most of it, I think.”

“Well, thanks for coming to get me, then. I mean it, though. I’m glad. That you love him. He needs it. He might not always know he does, and he might not return it like he should, but he needs it so much.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Cas.”

“Don’t say you’re sorry, Sam. There’s nothing to be sorry for.” One of Castiel’s hands wriggles free and touches his cheek and Sam gasps, feels Grace wash over him.

“What, Cas—why?”

“My blood. I took it away. So you won’t have to go through withdrawals, like before.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

The bathroom door opens and the room floods with dirty yellow light. Sam blinks a few times and focuses to find Dean looking around. Cas had cleaned them of blood, but the room is still a slaughterhouse, and Dean takes it all in. Sam sees his brother’s mouth open, sees his hands start to tremble, and when Dean looks at the two of them curled together on the bed, his eyes roll in his head and Sam manages to disentangle himself from Cas and make it to Dean just as his knees buckle.

Dean wakes. He is underwater, and doesn’t try to breathe. He doesn’t panic, just tests his body. His limbs are sore, but he can wiggle his toes, move his feet, flex his legs, stretch his arms out in front of him. His head is heavy, eyes made of lead, skull so full of rocks there’s no room for thoughts, for memories, and as if that wasn’t enough, he becomes aware of something around his middle, weighing him down in the murk. He wriggles and it clasps him tighter. Cautiously, he explores it with his own hands. Something rough, strong, something that searches back, something that catches his fingers with its own. Smaller than his. It’s not Sammy.

“Cas?” he exhales, incredulous.

“Dean,” comes the soft reply.

Shame buries him. “Hey, um, you can let me go. It’s ok, really.”

“I don’t want to.”

“No, Cas, c’mon. Look, I’m sorry, and you don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?” Cas’ voice vibrates through him as he presses his head harder against Dean’s back, one of his legs slipping between Dean’s and capturing him there, too.

“You know. Hold on to me. Just let me go, huh? I’ll—” His first thought is of the bottle, but he’s pretty sure that’s empty. So he’ll go to a bar. Get in a fight. Fuck some chick silly, forget about all of this. This. Wanting to kill Cas, trying to kill himself. Fucking his brother. Sammy’s touches, his hands, his cock, his words. Sam and Cas lying in bed looking at him. _This._ Cas holding him, even though Dean tortured him. Holding him even though he is seriously fucked up. “I’m fine, ok?”

“I am unconvinced that is the truth, Dean.”

Dean tries to roll over at least, but Cas won’t let him, and Dean struggles then, fights to get away, but the angel is like stone and Dean is panting when he finally gives up, feeling small and foolish.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he says again. His voice breaks.

“You’re not. You need to forgive yourself. We’ve forgiven you, Sam and I. Do you remember?”

Dean nods, doesn’t speak because then Cas will hear his tears.

“It will be hard for you, I’m sure. But try. Forgive yourself one thing. Admit that you know what you did in Hell wasn’t your fault. Don’t go any further, but start there.”

Dean shakes his head at that, or maybe he just trembles so hard it seems that way, and Castiel grips him tighter.

“You don’t need to go through this alone anymore. You don’t have to hide anything. I’ll give you whatever you need to get through this. If you need to hurt someone, just ask me to come to you. Whatever you need, Dean.”

At that, Cas presses his body full length against Dean’s, and he is hard again, sweat slicked, needy and hot. Dean tries to turn, and Cas lets him move partially onto his stomach and it is more than just sweat on Castiel’s body. Sam and Cas talked for a long time after Dean passed out and one of the things Cas had admitted was that blood was not the best of lubricants, and Sam had supplied him with a bottle from his own bag and then had left again to try to find a store where everyone hadn’t seen him vanish into thin air with a half-flayed man.

Cas slithers onto Dean, who spreads his legs without being asked, who bends his back, and presses his lips to Castiel’s fingers as he braces himself over Dean. Cas is slow but inexorable, and the fiery slide into Dean’s body makes them both gasp. The pleasure is otherworldly for Dean, and he shamelessly pushes back, wants more, wants all of Cas, as much as he can give, but Castiel pins him, forces him down onto the bed. One of Cas’ hands moves slowly up Dean’s body, and before he realises what is happening, Cas has it clamped over his mouth and nose.

“Anything you want, Dean,” Cas repeats. “If you want to hurt, if you want to _be_ hurt, _I_ will do it. If you can’t admit that you want to live, then I will remind you,” he says, and Dean wants to breathe now, desperately, and Cas’ cock grinds in circles inside of him, his Grace holds Dean immobile. There is a pressure in his chest, his ears ring, there’s pain in his arms and neck. Cas slows Dean’s heart, squeezing it until Dean begins to whine with the last of his air, in agony, and Cas never stops fucking him.

“If you need forgiveness, if you need to surrender like you did to me in the alley, pray, call out to me. I will be the one to hurt you, to heal you, to save you, do you understand? You are _mine_ , Dean, and I will not let you go, will not let you fall. _Do. You. Understand._ ” Castiel’s cock pounds the words into Dean and when he lets go of Dean’s mouth, pulls back his Grace after he heals his heart, Dean draws a tortured breath and cries out his answer.

When their movements slow, cease, and Cas rolls them onto their sides, kisses the sweat from Dean’s neck, buries his nose in Dean’s hairline, they both jump when Sam clears his throat. There’s a half-drunk beer in one hand. In the other is his very hard cock.

“You know, Dean, Cas told me what you said about hurting me, too. About what you did in Hell, how they looked like me. If you really want to, if you have to, you can hurt me.”

“Sam, no.”

“Yeah, it’s ok. Cas thinks eventually you’ll get over it, if you see the reality. It makes sense.”

“No…” Dean breathes the word, Castiel’s lips on his neck and the sight of his brother stroking his cock and the permission and promises roiling in his mind are all too much for him to make sense of.

“Want you, Sammy,” he babbles, “need you, don’t wanna hurt you, baby, please.”

Cas pushes him out of bed, half-carries him to Sam, and in a gentle mimicry of what Sam did to Castiel, Cas pushes Dean down before his brother, onto his knees, and the angel strokes him, pets him as Sam finishes his beer, and Dean sucks on him, licks, kisses, and when Cas moves behind Dean again, moves close and then into him, Sam praises them both, tells them they are fucking gorgeous and perfect and he loves to see them together, that Dean doesn’t have to worry, he and Cas will always be here for him, one or the other or both. He tells him he loves them, and Cas says it, too, and Dean whimpers as their hands caress and sooth and excite him by turns.

Later, Sam wrinkles his nose. “It’s interesting how you can make the blood go away, but not that funky motel smell, Cas.”

Castiel frowns and Dean laughs. The couple are together on the bed, Sam in a chair next to them, feet on the table as they watch a _Sopranos_ rerun and drink beer. Dean’s lips are stained purple.

“Where did you get these little pie calzones, Sam? They are awesome.”

“The city. I think we should go. Portland is pretty cool. Or we could go to the coast. I saw a brochure for a place called Seaside. Get a decent hotel for once. Take a fucking break. The world’s on autopilot right now, Bobby’s searching his butt off, and there’s not a lot to do but hang out and see, you know?”

They both wait silently. Dean has to decide if he needs to work or if he can deal with down time, with time to himself. He licks his fingers, watches the TV, smiles absently when he sees the goat come into the stable with Tony and the sick horse, and then nods, almost to himself.

“Yeah, the ocean. That’s cool.” He looks down, fiddles with his beer cap. “Cas, you’ll stay with us, huh?”

“Yes, Dean.”

He sniffs, and smiles again.


End file.
